


Forever Gone

by penseavenir17



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-10-06 07:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10328981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penseavenir17/pseuds/penseavenir17
Summary: In the spring of 1971 their story began......In the fall of 2017 her story began without him





	1. Part I - Tears to Sinatra

**Author's Note:**

> So my H key broke which is challenge when you are writing a story, particularly one about Hillary. I killed him, I know. I'm not sorry. I got this idea when I watched Jackie, the new Natalie Portman movie about Jackie Kennedy. The whole closet thing was vaguely inspired by when she wanders around the White House, smoking and drinking, in her fanciest clothing. Also I didn't proof this, because I didn't want to, so I'm sorry about an grammatical errors.

**October 11th.** **  
** Since she was barely an adult, this day had meant something to her but this year was harder.

**October 10th.**

Watching that line go as flat as an ironing board, she froze. 

“Mrs.Clinton,” she heard the doctor beginning his sentence before he suddenly stopped. She was in tears, balling up on the ice cold floor of _ Columbia Presbyterian Hospital _ . Her black pants were collecting dust, her freshly-set hair getting so frizzed up you would think she was starring on  _ The Magic School Bus _ , tears were rolling out of her usually bright, blue eyes. Just think what her mother would say.

“Hillary Diane! Get up, dust yourself off and start a new day.” She decided that this would be her reaction right after her death. Every day for nearly a year she would repeat it in her head over and over again.  _ Hillary Diane! Get up, dust yourself off and start a new day. Hillary Diane! Get up, dust yourself off. Hillary Diane! Get up. Hillary Diane! _

She must have said it so many times that after six years, it had faded away. She couldn’t get up. She just wanted to go. She wasn’t one to cry, rarely and infamously showing genuine emotion in public, but this was different. After all, the man she devoted her life to was already on his way up. It had been his heart, of course it had been his heart. Even after switching to a vegan diet and a healthy lifestyle, she always knew it would be his heart that kicked it first. She thought it must have been a metaphor. His heart broke first, and his heart broke her world. It wasn’t just the women, although they certainly weren’t fun. It was everything. Her world had been built around what his heart did to her, what he did to her heart. Moving to Arkansas, her seat in the Senate, all of it. Tonight she would go home without him. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

“Mom,” It was Chelsea. She immediately sat up and wiped the tears off her face, she sat criss-cross applesauce for probably the first time in years.

“What do we do now?” The question could be interpreted as deep but it wasn’t, she meant it. Where are they putting him for now? They had a plot in Arkansas but she knew that as a former president there had to be a funeral, no matter how much she dreaded it. Did she have to invite the cheeto? Yes, he is the sitting president but she’s the one with the dead husband. 

**\---**

She was home. The news of Bill’s death would be announced by his library in the morning but until then she had one night, one night between her husband’s death and the world’s opinion on her husband’s death. She didn’t know what to do with it. She took off her clothing. Unbuttoning her jacket, slipping down her pants, rolling her pantyhose, and she placed it all laid out on her bedroom floor. Now she walked over to her record player. Why on earth does she still have a record player in her bedroom in 2017? It brings her joy, she loves watching the record spin, she loves when an old record skips a beat. It reminds her of the olden days, the simpler days when it was just herself and Bill. Dancing on the rug in their New Haven apartment, sitting on the sunny California beach, newlyweds sleeping on the screened-in porch during the hot Arkansas summers, playing with their young daughter in the old Governor’s mansion; the one that to this day she still swears is haunted. The old music and the record player makes everything seem so...simple. She walked into her closet as Frank Sinatra plays in the background, trying on clothing. 

 

First, her red pantsuit from that first 2016 debate. She killed that debate and her favorite part was the reaction. Once she got backstage she was greeted by Marc, Chelsea, and Bill. She remembered Bill jumping up and down like a little boy, ecstatic that she had done so well. They had spent weeks preparing. Their long walks got longer and their hours of talking just went on for more hours.

 

_ I don't want clever, clever conversation _

_ I never want to work that hard _

_ I just want someone that I can talk to _

_ I want you just the way you are. _

 

Then she slipped on her white Ralph Lauren, the one from the convention. A pantsuit just like all her others, this one in suffragette white. She remembers that entire week. She remembers the joy of that week, of that moment. She was as happy as ever, in that moment. Today she didn’t feel the same.

 

_ There's a smile on my face, for the whole human race. _

 

She saw six black pantsuits, lined up in a row. Her uniform of power when she was striking out on her own. She picked up the first one and put it on. She hadn’t worn one of these in years and yet it felt just right. She remembered everything about her days in the senate. It was the first time since Watergate that she felt her own power, something she never thought she would see again after 1975. 

 

_ It's hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind, if you're young at heart. _

 

Next was a gold dress, the one from the second inaugural. It sat on a mannequin for twenty years. Today she took it off the mannequin and slipped it on herself. She attempted to zip it up but she couldn’t reach. She began to call Bill to help her until she paused, she realized her wasn’t there, he was never going to be there. She remembered when he first saw her in the classic Oscar De La Renta. He told her that she looked beautiful, he was in awe of her and she loved it. It had been just what she had wanted from that night.

 

_ Love is funny or it's sad _

_ Or it's quiet or it's mad _

_ It's a good thing or it's bad _

_ But beautiful. _

 

She finally reached the one dress that means more than the others. The dress she bought off the rack 42 years ago today. Why does simple victorian dress from Dillards mean more to her than any of the thousand dollar dresses that sit beside it?  Because of what it represents, because of who it represents. She put on all the other dresses, but she didn’t dare take this off the hanger.                                                                                She just held it in her hands, feeling her fingers through the trim on the arms.

 

_ Love and marriage, love and marriage _

_ Go together like a horse and carriage _

_ This I tell you brother _

_ You can't have one without the other. _

 

Sliding her hands down from the collar, to the torso, to the skirt, and down to the floor. She sat on the floor and just started crying.

She can’t do it, she just can’t, she can’t do it without him but she has to.

 

_ They say that time _

_ Heals a broken heart _

_ But time has stood still _

_ Since we've been apart. _


	2. Part II - The Dead Brontë Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She came down to D.C. the next morning, and Whitehaven brought back pains, memories, and ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me longer to write, and I re-wrote it a couple of times. I didn't know where I wanted to take Hillary and honestly I still don't. Since she has always been so private, I don't really want her opening up to people which means she has to open up through things, hence the Sinatra in the last chapter and Wuthering Heights here. I don't know if I like this chapter, but I hope you do.

####  **_It is with our deepest sorrow that we inform you of the death of our beloved husband, father, and president, William Jefferson Clinton on October 10th, 2017. He is survived by his loving wife Hillary, daughter Chelsea, son-in-law Marc, grandchildren Charlotte and Aidan, brother Roger, nephews Tyler, Zachary, and Simon, and nieces Macy and Fiona. We remember him as a treasured leader who led our nation through a time of peace and prosperity._ **

 

She hated everything about that statement. Yes, it is all true but she couldn’t look at it all laid out in front of her.  _ The death of our beloved husband...William Jefferson Clinton _ . It was real, it was there. The morning had come and he was still gone. 

“Mrs.Clinton,” she heard at the door.  _ Mrs.Clinton _ . She had been called that for years but never without a Mr.Clinton. Clinton was her name, known to millions, so why did it feel so weird? Why did it feel so wrong? 

“Mrs.Clinton,” she heard it again only this voice was different. It was softer in tone yet clearly greater in ergency.  

“Mrs.Clinton, how are you feeling?” What kind of question was that? Like ‘Hello ma’am your husband died less than twelve hours ago and now you are going to go down to your former workplace, the Capital, the most narcissistic and self-serving place in the nation, to accept condolences from people who can’t wait to pry off the grieving widow, how are you feeling?’

What the motherfucking hell? Of course she would never say that.

“Hanging in there, almost ready to go!” She said, barely holding it together. The truth is, she hadn’t been able to sleep all night and she was still in just her bra and underwear, as she was last night, only now she had a few bottles of wine surrounding her. She put on one of her many black pantsuits. This one was from the Democratic primary debate over a year ago. She paired it with a large pearl necklace and kitten heels with a bow on the toe. She glanced at herself in the mirror, 

“God, I look like a widow,” she mumbled to herself. She dreaded everything about this day. If there’s one thing she hates over anything else it’s people feeling sorry for her. All of the condolences just made her want to cry. God! People suck. 

 

She took a deep breath and walked out of her bedroom. Her bedroom? Their bedroom? Their bedroom. Not saying a single thing to anyone she made a point to lift her chin high before she left for the drive to the Westchester County airport. Under most circumstances she would have taken AMTRAC but this is most circumstances. The plane ride was short, but it felt long. She had probably taken this ride hundreds of times as Secretary of State and a Senator, but this time it was as if time had decided to go at half the speed. Pulling into Andrew’s she was greeted by hundreds of people, cheering her on. She felt like a little puppy, so sensitive to lights and sounds. She step off the plane, into the bright Maryland sun, even with her sunglasses on her blue eyes stung and her head hurt. It was just  **_flash, flash, flash_ ** of white lights on the blue sky. Hillary felt herself getting lightheaded but managed to stabilize her feet on the hard ground before she went down. She didn’t trust herself to stay up so she was very thankful that Nancy Pelosi had been sent to greet her at the gate. Nancy, in a classic, knee-length black power dress and business shoes, made her way to Hillary. There were few people left in Washington that Hillary genuinely liked, and Nancy’s certainly on that list. Walking hand and hand they made it into the car. 

“Sweetheart,” Nancy began cautiously. She knew that Hillary didn't want to talk, of course she didn't want to talk. She had been through hell over the last couple decades and had only shared it with one person. He had been her confidante and when the issue was about him, she didn't share her thoughts with anyone and she was fine with that. Hillary has never felt the need to share herself with the world, to her detriment she never wore her heart on her shoulder, and Nancy knew she wouldn't start today. 

They eventually reached Whitehaven and Hillary got out of the car. She walked up the brick pathway, to the black door. Since her years high school she had talked about wanting to live in Georgetown, how lovely the area is, how classic and stunning the houses are, how the evergreens and cherry blossoms overlap along the light blue skyline. Everything about this neighborhood is her style. The second she looked into her front window, she noticed the lamp. Her lamp was on. When she was Secretary of State, every time she was getting home from a trip her mother would leave the lamp on for her so once she returned from the first trip after her death, Bill and Chelsea were at Whitehaven with the front lamp on. She had no clue who 

left the lamp on, and frankly that information was never necessary, it brought her warmth during such an icy time. She walked through the foyer, filled with pictures from her life. Portraits from magazine shoots, campaign photos of her and Bill, home pictures taken with a crappy lense, her house was filled with photos of her which seems justified as she may have been the most photographed person in the world for three decades, but it still never felt right. When people came to do interviews, she felt guilty because she thought they would find her self obsessed, one of those. For all the years of hating the pictures lining her walls, she was sure glad they were here today. She turned around only to realize that her house had  been cleared out and it was just her. She truly didn’t know what to do with herself, she finally understood the comparisons with Selina Meyer. She started to walk over to the bookshelf in the front of her house before stopping at an end table,  _ Wuthering Heights  _ sitting out. She opened up the book and began to read.

 

  1. _\-- I have just returned from a visit to my landlord -- the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with._



  
Hillary always had a special place for Wuthering Heights. Yes, all three Bront ë sisters were amazing, but somehow Emily had been different. Today it occurred to her. Maybe Emily seemed different because Emily had been dead, she never touched her own legacy. She had been shaped not by her perception of herself, but in fact solely by others perception of her. Hillary now knew that she, not Bill, was always meant to write his story. The way Jackie had, the way Charlotte had, the way legends are made, the way stories are told. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so after I reread this, I didn't really like the Withering Heights part, I don't think I tied it in well so I am going to post this before my anxieties about it get the better of me and it never sees the light of day. Hope you enjoyed (or didn't die) and feedback is greatly appreciated :)


	3. Part III - Oh So Frank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is home and surrounded by everything, but is she ready?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this because I like the anger, I want the anger, but I don't want it to destroy her. I like the Scarlett even though Scarlett obviously has some (a fair amount of) flaws because Scarlett is real (actually she is a fictional literature character), she isn't some perfect, flawless woman for her to compare herself to. I also used the movie lines as opposed to book quotes because I am lazy and don't feel like pulling Gone With The Wind off my shelf to search for quotes.

She put the book down and began walking through her house, looking at each image, some made her happy or sad or even angry. She paused at one photo that caught her eye. It was her and Bill on a train, or plane, or something. His glasses perched on his nose, her stick straight hair pulled back  by a headband. Their hands in between the seats, tights clasped together, as they gaze into each other’s eyes. At first it made her smile, such an adorable photo of the two of them. She remembered that election very well, that election was the one  that changed anything. The only one in which the outcome would not just change their lives, but the way they lived them. She remembered being the candidate’s wife, it was a lot harder than being the governor’s wife but worlds easier than being the president’s wife, and certainly easier than being that president’s wife. She loves him so much but he never made it easy to do so. Bill Clinton was known for his FOBs. The people he collected and catalogued since elementary school, the ones who won him that election. But he was also known for his women. Not nearly as meticulously kept track of or politically useful, but well documented even before Monica. Looking at the image began to make her sad, not because he gone, simply just reliving the pain of it all. Of the women, how he was gone so many nights when Chelsea was young. How she knew in the back of her head where he was but never wanted to say it. They only really first addressed it in 1989 and even then she had done so in such a lawyerly fashion that it only registered in her head, not in her heart. She was truly becoming angry, not at him, never at him, just at what she had gone through. It was like it was all interconnected. Every piece of shit. It was really a cycle of Clinton hating that had become a hobby for so many, her and him against the world and against the book. She was angry because they had taken their life from them. The world had taken more from the Clintons than from anyone else, and she knew they most likely wouldn’t be repaid in legacy. She turned to look at an image a few rows down: Bill, herself, and Newt Gingrich chatting with champagne in hand at the congressional lunch-in. Hillary had a reputation for working well with Republicans, but god she hates that man. What he represents, what he did, what he started, all he hurt, and all he did. She tore the image off the wall, angrily throwing it at the wall. The glass inside the black frame shattered. She reached up, tearing down a few more photos. One of him and her as the Madisons, another of them kissing at the opening of his library. She kept moving down the wall, ripping the bottom two rows down to the floor. Sliding herself down the cold wood floor, taking the images of her life with her, it felt good, it felt amazing. She was angry and she had a right to be. Was her anger truly toward the Republicans and their decades long witchhunt? Most likely not, her husband of over forty years just died. But could it be? Certainly, and it made a damn good excuse as she didn’t want to touch her real emotions, at least not yet. She clinched the leg of a Mitchell Gold & Bob Williams console table as she rose up from the piles of black frames filled with her memories. She started to put her hands on the table, in a rather Underwood fashion but she stopped herself. Instead, she grasped her hands in front of her like a good little schoolgirl. She looked at herself in the mirror, she was messier than she had been that morning and wrinklier than she had been in many of those broken photos, but she looked the same. The same apples in her cheeks, the same toothy smile, and those same ocean-blue eyes. Bill’s eyes had dulled with years but hers never had. Her eyes still managed to have soul while the rest of her was so distraught. She felt a sense of spunk in them. Not necessarily a high-raised hand Tracy Flick but not a boobs out, platinum-haired Madonna either. More of an O’Hara. In this moment, she wanted to be so sure of herself that she doesn’t care how hated she is. She knows she is human, she knows she, like everyone else, is broken and she’s not quite okay with it yet but she knows it. She is ready to channel Scarlett. She is ready to tell people what she means. 

 

_ Great balls of fire. Don't bother me anymore, and don't call me sugar. _

 

She is ready to see her ever-present limits, despite how dreadful they may be. She is a person, she is human and at some point it's good to accept that. 

 

_ I can shoot straight, if I don't have to shoot too far. _

 

She was ready to acknowledge her legacy. Acknowledge the fact that she’s Hillary Rodham Clinton and that she has changed the world. People will always judge her but at some point she has to take advantage of the fact that she has done so much, she is so much. If not for the perks, at least for the confidence boost. After all, she is one of the most important women in American history and that can never be taken away.

 

_ Thank heaven I'm not that modest. _

 

There was one thing that she for sure didn’t relate to Scarlett on. She’s not a young widow, she doesn’t have her life ahead of her, but she feels the same about being a widow. She feels the same fear, she feels the same pain. The horror and the heartache are the same across the stories and across the years. 

 

_ My life is over. Nothing will ever happen to me again.  _

  
If she thought with her head she would wonder why over 150 years later it still means the same thing to be a widow as it had back then. Are husbandless women valued the same? Have we really not moved forward? It wasn’t that though, it was real. Social constraints and cultural timelines change a lot of things, but they don’t change love. Love is timeless. Maybe Hillary did have some Scarlett O’Hara in her, whether it be for one night or forever, but that wasn’t going to lead her anywhere by herself. She, like Scarlett, had a story to tell, a book to fill, a movie to star in. Hillary, like Scarlett, had to look through that mirror, straight through her ocean-blue eyes and find out where the drive can take her. She may not be ready to be Scarlett, she may not be ready to be Hillary, she may not even be ready to try, and that’s okay. That’s okay because she knows that the drive is there and the fire is there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I have enough cultural references soaking up my brain juices to star on an episode of Gilmore Girls but I guess I'll just try and use them in this instead. Please tell me what you think! I honestly have no clue where I am taking this. Also, since I have no life, I was rewatching old Scandal episodes and although the first chapter was meant to be (very loosely if you've seen it) based off the scene in Jackie, it is much more like Liv crying in the closet after Fitz is shot. But you know what? I need a President Mellie so it doesn't matter. Anyways, that tangent was absolutely necessary and I am going to shut up now :)


	4. Part IV - What Doesn't Bend, Breaks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late night walk in the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went Ani DiFranco this time around. I swear eventually there will be a plot to this whole damn thing but not right now. Hopefully this chapter will lead me somewhere. I promise that although the first half is rather dull, it gets a lot more exciting toward the end.

She hadn’t slept for a second night. She laid in bed and just tossed back and forth. Honestly, if she had tried she probably would have been able to sleep, but she didn’t want to. You couldn’t ask her why, she had no clue. It just meant something, she didn’t want to sleep even though she knew she should. She just kind of wanted to lay there, playing all-to-truthful Ani DiFranco lyrics over in her head. She knew it wasn’t right, she knew it wasn’t proper or normal or whatever it is that she’s supposed to be. Okay? She is supposed to be okay. But she isn’t.

 

_ I am a work in progress, _

_ dressed in the fabric of a world unfolding, _

_ offering me intricate patterns of questions, _

_ rhythms that never come clean, _

_ And strength that you still haven’t seen.  _

_   
_ After nearly seventy years of being here, she was finally approaching a truth. She is a person, she has emotions and struggles, she has strengths and weaknesses, she has flaws. Of course she knew this, she wasn’t ignorant. It was just that her father had taught her not to know it, not to acknowledge it. If she pretended they weren’t there, then they would go away, after all they always had. The idea of her being cold, emotionless, and inhuman had been partially about the horrific standard and evil ideas the world put on her, but part of it had been herself. For if you pretend something isn’t there, then it will eventually disappear.

 

_ What bugs me is that you believe what you’re saying, _

_ what bothers me is that you don’t know how you feel, _

_ what scares me is while you’re telling me stories, _

_ you actually believe that they are real.  _

 

She had gone to therapy with Bill after Lewinsky, she hated it. She was set in her idea that she would never do that again, she would fix herself on her own. She never liked introspection, it had to do with her hatred of flaws. She was always one to keep going, to keep moving, and to never stop. She never understood smelling the roses, Bill always did though, it always made him late. That was probably one of the best things about love, the things you notice in each other. They weren’t good or bad, they were just little things that made someone who they are. 

 

_ Love is like a mirror. _

_ When you love another you become his mirror and he becomes yours, _

_ And reflecting each other’s love you see infinity.  _

 

Don’t get the wrong impression, there were certainly things that Hillary noticed in herself. Things she liked and things she didn’t. Everyone is self-conscious and she certainly was no different. Even if she sometimes turned a blind eye to her own faults, she’s very self aware. She understands the idea of image and the importance of presenting hers. She has those little things that make her chin sit a little higher, her eyes brighten a little. She also has the opposite, the things she hates about herself and the ones that she dreads showing to the world. 

 

_ I wish I didn’t have this nervous laugh, _

_ I wish didn’t say half the stuff I say, _

_ I wish I could just learn to cover my tracks, _

_ I guess I’m not concerned about getting away with it.  _

 

Hillary was done sulking in her own thoughts, she had to get out. She slipt out of bed and walked down stairs. She put on a long black jacket before heading outside. She stepped out onto her front stoop, there were no cameras in front of her home, Georgetown was seemingly at peace against the midnight blue sky. She saw her agents out of the corner of her eye, they were scrambling to prepare to leave. She knew they were afraid to talk to her, the crazy grieving widow who wants to take a walk at two in the morning. 

 

_ Taken out of context,  _

_ I must seem so strange. _

She walked through the neighborhood until she reached Montrose Park. She absolutely loved the green plants and trees of this park and as they faded into warm, fall colors she soaked it all in. Hillary sat down on an old rustic bench and just sat there. If it weren’t for the fact that she couldn’t let someone discover her sleeping on a bench in the park when the sun rose, she would’ve stayed there all night, but she didn’t wish to deal with that PR fiasco. She looked around at the city that had caused her so much pain. It was silent and chilly, the lights in the homes were out and there were few cars on the street. D.C. was no New York, D.C. was asleep. There was not one voice that could share an opinion, there is not one camera, frankly there was not one person to ask her how she felt. 

 

_ Don’t ask me why I’m crying, _

_ I’m not gonna tell you what’s wrong. _

 

At this point she wanted only one person and the rest of humankind was just superfluous. But that one person, the only one she wanted to talk to, the one sitting next to her on that old rustic bench, he was gone. Dead. 55.3 million people die each year and a good majority of them left someone grieving but she wanted hers to be different. Not because he gets a large funeral procession and a burial attended by superstars and world leaders or because he made so much history, just simple because she was his. That may sound pretentious or narcissistic but she wanted it. She wanted him to be remembered forever in an extravagant way. She wants to wear a black veil and pearls as some of the greatest people of this era share their condolences on a tv special watched by millions and she wants to do it without criticism. She wants to be able to be herself and live her life without a single comment. She could handle the occasional “I like your outfit” or “That was a lovely speech” but she wouldn’t mind if all of the pundits who make a living off of analyzing her just crawled into a hole. She wanted to live in peace.

 

_ Like what I happen _

_ To be wearing _

_ The day that someone takes a picture _

_ Is my new statement _

_ For all of womankind  _

 

“Hillary!” She heard from behind her. She turned around and saw the bushes rumbled as her security team quickly ran to surround her. Guns up, fight position. As the middle-aged woman in a Patagonia sweater emerged from the bushes with her small spaniel she seemed to pose no threat yet her detail continued to surround her. 

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, it’s just I saw you as I was walking by and my daughter is such a huge fan of yours and I was wondering if she could say hello?” The woman asked. 

“Well, of course!” Hillary didn’t want to talk to anyone but what was she going to do, deny a child of the incredible experience of meeting Hillary Rodham Clinton (maybe that is a little vain, but truthful) so she smiled as the young girl with blonde curly hair emerged in a PINK sweatshirt and Nike shorts. The girl walked around the bench until she was face to face with Hillary. At that moment, Hillary noticed a bulge in the her sweatshirt. The girl slipped her hand in a pulled out a gun. It wasn’t a big gun but wasn’t particularly small either. It looked like the pistol from all of the movies. Charcoal grey with indentations for the fingers, the hole for the bullet was small but seemed like the entire world in that moment. Hillary noticed that the woman and her dog were gone, disappeared back into the bushes. She sensed fear in this girl, uncertainty, and she decided to take a risk with that. Hillary gracefully stood up and faced down the girl, eye to eye. She placed her hand on top of the gun and pushed it down. The girl was in shock. 

 

_ Why we all got look, _

_ Why we all gotta act the same? _

_ I say if you're born a lion, _

_ Don't bother trying to act tame. _

 

Hillary walked away toward her car as her agents held the girl and called local police. Hillary heard a voice faintly behind her.    
“Hillary, what are you afraid of?” The girl asked as her hands were cuffed together and her future was uncertain. Without even turning her head Hillary responded,

“I’m afraid of being consigned to oblivion, among other things. But you, my dear do not have the security clearance for the rest of my shit.” 

 

_ I'm recording our history _

_ Now on the bedroom wall _

_ And when we leave _

_ The landlord will come _

_ And paint over it all. _

 

And with that, she walked away into the Washington night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this, at least a little. Please share your thoughts!!


	5. Part V - Through Accepting Limits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sofa, a glass of wine, and a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. I wrote like nothing in about a week but I finished this chapter tonight and I don't think it's half bad so I hope you feel the same. I went with Wicked for this chapter because Wicked is fabulous. Also, I didn't proof read any of this so I'm sure there are mistakes in quotation and excessive commas, I'm sorry about that.

Hillary had arrived home and taken her coat off. On any normal night if this had happened she would be calling Bill this very minute to rave about it but this night wasn’t normal, or it was just the new normal. Oh she wished her new normal could involve him.

 

_ Don't wish. Don't Start. Wishing only wounds the heart. _

 

At this point she just wanted to have him. She wanted his shoulder to lean on in the restaurant booth, she wanted his hand to hold when she needed a good squeeze, she desperately wanted him to fall asleep without turning out his bedlight so she could crawl over him to turn it off being careful to not wake up the dogs that he allowed to sleep on the bed despite her disapproval. She wanted to come home from work, sit on the couch, and drink an overpriced bottle of wine with him. She wanted everything she took for granted all these years.

_ Oh, everything is gorgeous once it's gone.  _

 

She may not have him but she still has that overpriced wine. She made her way into the kitchen where she grabbed a bottle of Chateau Margaux and poured a little more than she probably should’ve into a classic wine glass before going into the living room and turning on HGTV. After just a few short minutes, House Hunter’s was interrupted by a special report. It was something about Russia but she had stopped paying attention to those stories in about June. They were complicated enough as they were but when you throw in the fact that it was a whole complex conspiracy around defeating her, for some strange reason it doesn’t make her glad to know the succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.

 

_ The world was floods above and fire below. _

 

Despite the horrors of everything, one thing put peace in her soul. She knew her demons by name. The worst thing about the life she chose is that those who are evil, aren’t known. It is a game of theatre in which playing the good one is valued over being the good one. Those who choose a life in politics are way too often those who think they are good but in fact do a great deal of harm. 

 

_ People who claim that they’re evil are usually no worse than the rest of us. It’s people who claim that they’re good, or anyway better than the rest of us, that you have to be wary of. _

 

Although she had muted the noise, the television was still on and her face was blasted upon it. Video of her and Bill walking out the day of the inauguration immediately brought back memories but not the ones you would think. She remembered how she had obsessed over how she looked that morning, how she was so lost and so confused. She had no clue of where she was going with her life and how Bill stood with her. When everyone else was pushing her, he just held on to her. She knew that morning that she was going to be okay but she didn’t know what made her more than a prop.

 

_ She reasoned that because she was beautiful she was significant, though what she signified, and to whom, was not clear to her yet. _

 

Hillary had learned a lot from her years in whatever you call what her life has been, it was more than politics, it was almost purgatory. But what was it punishment for? She loved to show people wrong, make them stop in their tracks in amazement. She was an introvert who showed an altruistic passion for others however she also thrived off of the game. 

 

_ Being born with a talent or an inclination for goodness is the aberration. _

 

She loved the backrooms and the bars, she loved the speeches and the dinners, she loved the applause and the people, but she never seemed to love it more than Bill did. But she certainly loved it for all it’s flaws.

 

_ How brave that had made her feel, and how vulnerable too. _

 

She had finally snuggled into the couch when her phone rang. Not wanting to get up, she put her hand onto the end table, attempting to feel for her soft blue phone case. She felt the stem of her wine glass and not half a second later she heard the glass shatter on the hardwood floor. Oops! She didn’t care enough to clean it up now, someone else could get it later so she grabbed the phone instead. It was Chelsea. She had always wanted children and wished she’d had more but she loved her little girl with everything she had and now loved her grandchildren just the same. More than nearly anything, she loved watching Chelsea be a mom.

 

_ We only have babies when we're young enough not to know how grim life turns out _

 

“Hello Mom!” Chelsea said to her mother

“Hey, Darling!” She said absolutely delighted to hear her daughter’s voice, “How is going up there?”

“It’s going fine.” Chelsea said clearly not wanting to go into detail.

Hillary sensed something was up and not just the fact that her father had recently passed, “What’s wrong sweetheart?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Chelsea responded, changing her tone in hopes of moving on from the question.

 

_ Tell me to mind my own business, tell me to go fuck myself, to piss, off, go on, say it, but don’t tell me nothing’s wrong. _

 

“Okay then,” Hillary said, “How are my grandbabies?”

"Charlotte asked me something today.” Chelsea mentioned cautiously. 

“And what was that?” Hillary asked

“She asked me why. ‘Why did Poppop die?’” There was a pause in the call. Neither of them really wanted to say more. Hillary bit her lip and asked a question she didn’t want the answer to. 

“Well of course she asked why. She’s your child, isn’t she? What did you tell her?”

“I just told her because it was time. Nothing special just the standard defining death for toddlers.” Chelsea’s answer was rather simple, especially considering the hype.

“I mean there isn’t truly another way to define death for anyone."

 

_ You'll understand when you're older. Or anyway not understanding will become second nature, and it won't matter. _

 

“Very true. How did she respond?” Hillary asked, making an attempt to be as normal of a presence as she could. 

Chelsea wanted to tell her mom that Charlotte had moved on dottily and been cheerful as can be, but that would be a lie and Chelsea was above lying to her mother by this age, “She wasn’t pleased. She threw multiple books at the floor and then sat on my foot as I moved around the house. Once I told her it was time to get dressed for music, she ran into the closet and just sat there, stubborn as her grandmother. It was sad but it was also rather adorable.” 

 

_ No one is exempt from grief  _

 

“Aw my poor baby. But I can’t say it’s been that different for me down here. I tell you, your father has a way of making me miss him.” Hillary said.

“He certainly had a thing for you, at least a little,” Chelsea joked.

“Oh only a little, I see. But I’ll tell you darling, don’t get too attached to Marc cause this widow thing isn’t easy.” Hillary responded in her dry, sarcastic tone. 

 

_ This is why you shouldn't fall in love, it blinds you. Love is wicked distraction. _

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Chelsea said while making a futile attempt not to giggle, “Aidan’s crying so I should probably go but I love you!”   
“I love you too Chels!” Hillary responded before hanging up and putting her phone on the coffee table in front of her. And with that phone call in her head, Hillary slept for the first time in days.

 

_ She is no longer I, she is too long ago, she is only she… _  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think :)


	6. Part VI - Holly Jolly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting with congresspeople doesn't have to suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where have I been?  
> I don't even know but I've got this. I don't know where I'm taking her but I figured at least she deserved this.

The morning finally arrived. Hillary woke up at 6:28am that morning, two minutes before her alarm went off. She had a packed schedule. She was to meet with leaders in all three government branches before running through some final things for the funeral. She didn’t understand why they had her fly to Washington. Bill was being buried in Little Rock anyways. It was like they just had to have one last stab at her. Each one of them needed to see her one more time. Most likely, just to get the credit of having tea with the legendary presidential widow but if they were lucky, she would’ve gone mad. Hillary didn’t act like this wasn’t on a few of their minds. Her foes, both right and left, desperately wanted to see her fail. The chance at that is what kept them clinging on to breath for the last twenty years so the idea that the death of her husband had driven her mad, that she would slip into a depression, that she would be declared insane, it simply delighted them. Frankly, she was ready to be there but she wasn’t. 

 

_ I suppose you think I’m very brazen or très fou or something. _

 

By 7:30 she was dressed and ready.

Another day, another black pantsuit.

She got into the dark, bulletproof Suburban and looked out the window as it drove through NW Washington. There wasn’t much going on in the neighborhood. Just a couple rich kids and some posh dogs. But once she reached the center, it all shifted. The streets were lined with people, Americans mostly. There were children running down the street with a soft pretzel in one hand and a gift bag in another, there were parents taking photos of their little ones in front of some senator or war general or whatever. She saw dozens of homeless people. That had always been the case in this city. Outside of the beltway, people think of Washington as Senators and lobbyists. They think of the swamp dwellers. But those in the city. They know what makes D.C.. 

 

_ Didn’t I tell you that this was a wonderful place? _

 

She arrived at the big dome and stepped out of her car. This was familiar ground. Everyone from Chuck to Ryan was standing there waiting for her but she ignored them. She walked up the tall marble steps and into the building, shocking everyone. Speaker Ryan ran to the microphone to bullshit enough of a clarification to calm the press down. 

“The Secretary has stepped inside the building to begin meeting with leadership. We hope you will join us in there later today.” 

Hillary walked up to the door to the Senate chamber. There was a guard standing by but he wasn’t alarmed by her. She stepped over the red velvet railing with a level grace that would make Virginia roll her eyes. She stepped out onto the blue carpet and looked around. History had been made here hundreds of times and she had been a part of it. Hillary floated toward her old seat. One now occupied by her mentee. The chamber was empty so she took a seat. Her foot hit something soft and she looked down.

“Shhh!” It was a little boy, he looked about nine. Children weren’t allowed on the Senate floor so Hillary was slightly confused, but more so she was amused. The boy must be somebody’s and they’ll find him eventually. She opened up the top and tapped on the microphone, sure not to bother the little boy before sure enough, someone walked in. Hillary was startled and embarrassed. She turned around and was grateful to see Kirsten standing across from her. 

 

“Hi darling!” Hillary exclaimed before reaching in for a hug.

“Hello, how are you doing?” Kirsten asked. The great thing about her asking was that she meant it. She wasn’t some politician trying to get in Hillary’s good graces, she cared.

“Better than before.” Hillary said.

“That’s always good to hear.”

“I believe I have your son, Henry is it?” She had figured out who the boy was once Kirsten walked in.

“Of course! You know Mitch and Chuck both always yell at me about having the boys in here  but what can you do?” Kirsten joked.

“Aye! That’s the mysterious Senate bipartisanship people always talk about.” 

The little boy finally popped out from under the desk and Kirsten grabbed his hand.

“Should we go out?” She asked Hillary. 

Hillary look at her with a mischievous glance, “I was thinking about doing anything but.”

Kirsten knew exactly what to do, “I know where you can get some good Chardonnay.” Kirsten opened the desk of one junior Senator and pulled out a bottle of wine, a bottle opener, and two glasses. The two women walked out the front steps to where some of the most powerful people in the country were waiting and they sat down on the steps. They were far enough behind the podium that they weren’t in the immediate frame but close enough that some began to take notice. First it was Liz and Claire. Hillary liked Liz. She never served with her but throughout the vetting process for veep she really grew to appreciate her. Now Claire, Claire’s a riot. Everyone could call on her for a good laugh. Soon after them, Susan and Lisa quietly joined in. Who says bipartisanship is dead? Patty and Dianne came up from behind and soon enough there were a good number of senators just sitting in the corner, drinking wine. Claire noticed the bottle was nearly empty and called over a page to get some more. By this point, there were probably ten or so female senators just hanging out and drinking Chardonnay and yet nobody noticed. These poor little white boys loved hearing themselves talk about nothing so much that they couldn’t even look up long enough to notice that their “special guest” and all her little lady friends were twenty feet from them and having the time of their lives. 

 

_ Promise me one thing: don’t take me home until I’m drunk — very drunk indeed. _

 

Hillary thought this was absurd and hilarious. She got up and walked over to them. 

“Hello, gents!” She said as she deliberately walked right in front of their shot. Each and every one of them were shell-shocked as she casually pointed toward their colleagues. The looks on their faces nearly made up for everything. As she went into meetings, she was smiling for the first time. She had loved her mini party with her ladies and she of course loved the effect it had. For the first time since that miserable night, she smiled. Was she okay? No. But at least now she knows she can be both fucked up and jubilant.  

**Author's Note:**

> I think I like this, I started a second chapter and intend to continue with this. I know there is a lack of dialogue, because of the lack of social interaction. That is intentional and will hopefully ease up later on.  
> Please tell me what you think!


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